


Just A Bloke

by APendingThought



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vamp!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a vampire turned in Afghanistan.  He's a very ordinary supernatural hunter and doesn't quite fit in with the rest of his pack. Sherlock Holmes finds him arresting. John honestly doesn't want to find Sherlock tasty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John the Vampire

The problem with vampires, John Watson had confirmed long ago, was that they required a scene. He had left his home for Afghanistan a levelheaded, not quite young anymore medic and had every intention of returning the exact same thing. He had gotten his wish. Almost.

It had happened to him, of all people. A bite in the night, an induction without consent. He was a vampire now and for the rest of his natural…life, such as it was.

He'd returned to London and made no immediate contact with Harry. She'd laugh in his face if she knew; sell him to a lab for science. It wasn't something he'd put above her. Before all this, John Watson had been very careful with people. He'd closed up their veins, mended broken bone and sinew. Learning to be purposefully less careful with them in order for survival had been enervating at first but, like all changes, he'd adapted.

He'd tried reaching out, even in Afghanistan. Seeking others of his own…what was he now, a kind? The Afghanistan vampires were largely nomadic, roving in packs or caravans and feeding where they could most easily slip by unnoticed. Hospitals made easy prey. Watson should know. They controlled surplus population like cats in the Middle Ages, killing the poor, the destitute, and trimming off the outskirts of society. Watson quickly learned no one would notice another body in a war zone.

London would have to be very much the same thing. London vampires were posh. Tall, pale, painted creatures of legend. Glowing eyes, voices like bitter chocolate, absurd charms and fancies. They snacked on the upper crust, were only seen in certain clubs, and lived only in certain neighborhoods. They looked at John Watson and did not know what to make of him. Watson was fine with that.

At least he thought he was.

Every now and again it hit him. He'd been lonely before all this. Now he was truly alone. Just a lonely, broken, not-quite-man who occasionally craved a bit of hot blood. So much for human girlfriends. So much for human anything. He'd heard of some vampires who kept human companions as pets. Contracts had to be made for that, of course, and some bonds were less than what John would call holy. (oh, what a funny word that had become) Feeding partners were convenient, he supposed, but he could never do that to someone. He could never form a friendship with something he ate. Some vampires did manage to share a flat with an ordinary though it was rare. How disgusting it was that something like hunger could get in the way of human contact. He didn't have much choice really. He hadn't been able to find one vampire he could get along with and the humans were interesting for about 5 minutes before they became tasty.

He learned that hunting vampires his age still preferred nightclubs to shantytowns. "Don't touch the homeless, love. Never know where they've been." They'd admonish before tucking into comatose, pubescent, intoxicated, anonymous bloodstreams. Prey was easy and much too young in such places. It was not his scene and the blood alcohol levels were not to his liking.

John wanted clean blood. Not very often? He'd prided himself on self-control then and he'd certainly do it now, mystical hunger be damned. He hunted (god, was that the word they used?) in Tescos and get his food in the same place ordinary people did. Libraries, museums, gymnasiums, where wholesome people with wholesome even heartbeats mingled. Railway stations were acceptable in desperate times, the rush making it easier to hide a barely conscious aperitif. He found no trouble at all in keeping himself fed.

He was just desperately lonely.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you?"

John almost pegged him for one of his own the day he met him. He looked the part certainly. Nervous energy, translucent skin, shard glass eyes. John hadn't realized ordinary people came with such packaging but no, Sherlock Holmes was not one of them. He was just fucking weird.

This not-so-human bloke was someone he could get along with. For the first time since his return, the vampire John Watson was not merely content, he was happy.

John moved in and kept things to himself--very much to himself. He'd traipse about with Sherlock for lack of anything better to do between help-wanted ads and worked odd jobs until he found the locum gig. Sherlock's advanced levels of insight and observation were quite entertaining, far more engaging than what he'd encountered in most people. With Sherlock, John still felt the hunger; only he was oddly never hungry for him. Certainly, the man could be unnerving at times. One quick and deadly clamp to the jugular would more than shut him up. But what a pity it would be to feed on the only human worth breathing. No, Sherlock Holmes was definitely not food though the curiosity still lingered and made this whole thing, whatever it was, all the more enticing.

"John, wake up! Wake up, I need you now!" John heard the rhythm of Sherlock's frantic pulse long before the bedroom door burst open (knocking? Who needed it)? 

"Christ Sherlock, what now?" The man had little respect for decent night hours. He'd fit along right well with the posh vamp crowd.

"Bodies. A rash of them. Serial killings." Sherlock's unusual eyes glowed with excitement. John's mind raced back to last night's dinner. Where, when and how…?

"Come quickly, John! Lestrade's having a breakdown! We don't want to miss this!"

"Who on earth is this 'we'?" John growled, still asleep. "It's 4 in the bloody morning."

"Time waits for no evils, John!" Sherlock snapped, scribbling down notes in a notebook for once instead of his blackberry. "Meet me at this address in two minutes or you'll find yourself alone bored and boring this weekend. TA!" In a swirl of cliched dark tweed he vanished into the night. Cheeky fucker.

John blinked down at the piece of jagged paper in his lap and his heart began to pound. 

So feverish and giddy, the wanker had nicked himself on the paper's sharp edge. Sherlock in this state didn't care for things like paper cuts. Adrenalin made most people momentarily forget pain and that is exactly what he tasted when he slowly picked up the note and ran his tongue carefully along its edge. Adrenalin was definitely in the mix, hormones, some iron, the chemical aftertaste of those damned nicotine patches. A little bland on the hemoglobin so it made poor food, not rich or well maintained. There was barely any red to it at all. John moved his tongue slowly against his teeth, savoring and examining the trace of Sherlock's humanity on his tongue. About what he'd expected but…

…oh….OH! What was this now?

A stimulant. Speed, maybe? Cocaine more likely--expensive, professional grade and highly illegal. Oh, this was rich. Secrets, Mr. Holmes? Very few were able to keep secrets from him since the bite, despite John's ardent and fully English attempt to respect privacy. The blood told all. John ambled out of bed and put on a clean shirt. The night was always a little kinder to him anyway, why sleep through it? Besides, this friendship was getting better and better all the time. 

 

 _You’re a vampire._ Sherlock said it over breakfast one day and John nearly choked on his coffee (coffee was a human ritual he’d never been able to kick). Flustered, John gathered up his napkin and dabbed nervously at his lips where the brew had scattered along his chin.

“No.” His lips turned up into a mockery of force smile. “No, that’s absurd. That’s completely—“

“John.” Sherlock said with an infuriating, arrogant smirk. 

John felt his chest heaving. 

“Look. You can’t really believe in such—“ 

“Very convincing show. I’ll hand it to you, somehow you’ve evaded the conventional niches most vampires are forced into and passed yourself off as one of the blood-enriched populace.”

“How do you--?” John swallowed. “How do you know I’m a vampire? My own family doesn’t even—“

 

“And who are they? Let’s see, Oh right. Harriet, the sister. The sister in a drunk stupor who at this moment could care less for her immediate family. You’ve no care for her, she doesn’t have the rights to this side of you.”

“IF what you are saying is true.” John countered, fists clenching and unclenching on his lap, the coffee long forgotten. “Why have I not fed on you?”

“You’re a doctor. Seen a bit of trouble. Don’t want to involve yourself in more. I'm all you've got for love or company these days so I'd make a poor choice of menu indeed. Besides, you’ve already been given a nick.”

The damned note. So he'd known. John averted his eyes, agonizing, He’d never wanted to bring things to this, had held out on this confrontation for the longest. He ought to have known Sherlock would find out sooner or later. Even for a vampire, why was he so bloody stupid? 

“Oh don’t look like that.” Sherlock whispered with false empathy. “Practically everybody is.”

“Is what?” John had to ask.

“An idiot.”

John took a moment then to close his eyes and listen. Drown out the shouts of “Nonono” in his head and focus on other things. Sherlock’s pulse was damnably calm. Unfair. For the first time since he’d had his mortality lifted out from under him, John began to feel the first pangs of rage. This was not a choice, had never been given a choice. 

It felt only marginally better when he was suddenly and violently lunged across the forgotten cups of coffee and pots of jam. Army men statistically did poorly with rage, army vampires even less so. The coffee pot overturned and Sherlock slammed flat and hard against the back of his chair. That evened things out a little bit in John’s mind, not in the way he would have liked? But brute force was effective. Sherlock’s chest heaved beneath his arm, his throat working. If this show of violence fazed him, he gave no sign.

“Superhuman strength? My. What else have we got?” Sherlock’s fucking eyes glinted, madman. What in hell had he gotten himself into?

“Sherlock.” John took a deep breath, his hold tightening marginally on Sherlock’s larynx. “One thing it would be best to learn around…” He swallowed, grimaced. “…um, around my kind is when to **shut** the bloody hell up!”

Sherlock made the mistake of laughing so John wrenched his grip further, climbing easily over the table and toppling Sherlock violently onto the floor in a tangle of limbs. It was not as easy as he’d expected even without a fight from Sherlock. Though he had taken prey much larger, the man was still taller and more muscular. Taking him down meant a shift in proportions but in the end, he was sitting on the idiot’s chest, both hands wrapped around his neck beneath the breakfast table on an otherwise mundane Monday morning.

Threats, of course, meant nothing to this impossible man. They only fueled him.

“Are you by any chance….” Sherlock met his gaze carefully, licked his lips. “….hungry?”

John shut his eyes again if only to block out Sherlock’s ridiculous stare. Hungry? Who was he kidding? John smirked, shoulders shaking slightly at the invitation. It was laughable, the way Sherlock’s heart had suddenly picked up, thumping excitedly, begging him. _Come on, take, take, take._

John breathed once then twice then slowly released his flat mate.

“No, Sherlock.” He panted then grinned, somehow triumphant. “I’m not…at all…hungry.”

The scowl on Sherlock’s face made up for the mess of spilled coffee tenfold. 

“Anger and hunger are two different things.” John said, picking up his mug to rinse it in the sink. “You want to be drained so badly, I can give you several names more than happy to—“

“That’s not what this is about!” Sherlock hissed, a disheveled mess on the floor in his silk dressing gown. His heart, John noted, was still racing. Jolly. 

“Calm yourself.” John said, forcing himself to be cheery. “And you can ask all the bloody questions you want until I have to go to work.”

Sherlock kicked at the overturned sugar bowl with his foot like a sullen child and crossed his arms. John balked. One would almost think the fun was over. He had not overacted, had he? He swiped his tongue along his gums quickly, just to be sure. No, his fangs were still tucked away safe and sound. He was most definitely not harboring an appetite. He turned the mug over and over in his hands, letting the warm water and monotony of ritual task soothe him.

“Glowing eyes? Superhuman strength? All that rot you get from reading comic books? I’ve none of it. I’m a very boring vampire, Sherlock.”

“What makes you different?” Sherlock whined. “I’ve met vampires. I’ve even helped a few. None of them were like you.”

John shrugged and went back to drying his mug.

“Can you read my mind?” Sherlock asked, quietly.

“Not as well as you can read mine. No, Sherlock. I’m not one of those mind-reading vampires. Very rude the lot, if you want my opinion.”

“Can you tolerate sunshine?”

This next question made John sigh at the memory. “I was turned in Afghanistan. Yes, I can handle sun.”

“Crosses? Garlic? Holy water?”

The look on John’s face answered all three questions right on.

“Advanced sensitivity?”

John let his gaze drop.

“I can hear your heart beating like a jet engine right now but then you’re agitated and only 4 feet away. On days when you’re not around, I can just make out Mrs. Hudson’s from downstairs but that’s the extent of it. I don’t have to listen if I don’t want to. It’s a hunting mechanism. Nothing more.”

“What about smell?”

“That too.” John admitted. “The day you came home spattered in entrails? I know the shape and size of the body they once inhabited.”

“Fascinating…” Sherlock breathed in the same way someone else might moan: “Sexy”.

“How often do you need to…?”

“I feed three times a day. “ John said mechanically. “I get up early in the morning and hang about a pub, a tube station or someplace quiet where I won’t be noticed or likely interrupted. At lunch, I can grab a quick fill at the blood bank, helps being a doctor and all. Dinners I usually-- er, well, it depends. I’ll skip dinner if I’m tired or sometimes I’ll find a pack of vampires on a feed hunt and tag along. Libraries and gyms are closed in the evenings so bus stations and movie theaters tend to be most…er” He cleared his throat. “….accessible.”

“Do you always kill?” The way Sherlock said it made him cringe. That blank tone, cold and unfeeling, how could he talk of killing and survival in the same voice?

“I’m a doctor, aren’t I?” John laughed bitterly. “So odd, my Hippocratic oath is utter shite now. I know when to stop. I leave them with something to press over the vein and a shoddy pulse, but I leave them alive.”

“All of them?” Sherlock had not bothered to pick himself off the floor.

“Yes.” John breathed. “All.”


	2. Just a Bloke: Academics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to push John's limits. John continues to keep calm and carry on.

Days passed since the cat had been wrenched howling from the bag. John went about his business with half an eye on Sherlock. Not that Sherlock's demeanor had changed overmuch in reaction to, what remained in John's mind, this drama. Sherlock never watched his steps, never shut his mouth and never stopped asking questions. 

John, for his part, tried to remain sane. 

He'd taken to stalking rooftops in the summer nights when it got to hot to skirt among the crowds of flesh. It was a habit he'd gotten from Sherlock, watching the area from a high vantage point, being physically above the crowds put him at a distance from their noise and hormones. Made his head clearer and hunting a bit easier. Sherlock never asked questions when he slipped outside in the early morning with the sky still dimmed. He did not even blink when, once, an infatuated young man followed him drunkenly home after a midnight snack. 

"Oh, I'm sorry Sherlock. Did I wake you?" John cleared his throat irately, trying to disentangle himself from the intoxicated young man. Preying on drunk ones was never fun and left a bad aftertaste in his mouth. But pickings had been slim. The youth swayed and giggled on his feet, too far gone to even notice that his neck was bleeding freely from the tiny puncture marks above his collarbone. 

"Your friend looks a bit rare too me. Undercooked, I'd say." Sherlock commented, not looking up from John's laptop.

"Get off my laptop!" John warned dangerously, finally shushing the young man and walking him downstairs to put him in a cab. "You've had an accident, mate. Just press down firmly and have a long sleep."

He felt his flesh crawl when Sherlock let out a low rumble of a laugh. 

When he emerged from the staircase, exhausted, sweaty and very put out, Sherlock had wisely shut his laptop and put it away.

"We're going to have to discuss boundaries someday, Sherlock." John grunted, wiping his face with a paper towel. 

"Your laptop was closest." Sherlock said as though he were the affronted one. "No need to worry yourself. I didn't hack into any of your blood bank accounts."

John licked his lips, making sure not even a hint of fang was visible. "Look Sherlock, this is serious. I've survived this long only because I've managed to stay private about my affairs. Other vampires choose to flaunt themselves out or become cult leaders and they're welcome to that but I am putting a bloody lot of trust in you. You could very easily ruin my life!"

"About as easily as you could end mine." Sherlock whispered.

"Oh don't talk rubbish! I've already told you--"

"My blood not good enough?" 

John closed his eyes. He wanted a cup of ice water very badly.

"Piss off, Sherlock. Please, it's too hot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes like a teenaged girl and flopped himself lazily on the sofa. For a long time neither of them said anything which was necessary. Silence did not bother John at all and Sherlock was an expert at them. Together they sat, cooled down, reassessed. John sipped water from a glass and felt a little better. Sherlock stayed perfectly still. 

Suddenly, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Are you listening?"

"Hm?" John was confused. "To what?"

Sherlock released a brusque, infuriating sigh and rolled his eyes as though his previous absurd question had been perfectly sane. "My heartbeat."

Startled by the question, John frowned. "No. Not at all. Why?"

"Academic curiosity. Do you have a heartbeat?"

It was an innocent enough question and John had cooled down enough to entertain Sherlock's fancies. 

"Yes. Of course, I do."

Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach to face John seated at the kitchen table. 

"You say that as though it's a natural fact of vampire physiology but I've always read that vampires were able to defy such laws."

"What can I say? Don't believe everything you read." John shrugged.

"What happens if you don't feed?" Sherlock propped his chin in his hand.

"I've never gone too long without feeding. The longest I'd fasted was between Afghanistan and London. I felt ill a lot and drowsy but that all changed as soon as I got my hands on a lamb."

"So animal blood is acceptable?"

John wrinkled his nose. "If it's fresh."

"I see."

"Oh, do you?"

"Is it possible to kill you?"

"I've heard some vampires take their own lives by not feeding. I've heard it's possible for us to starve to death or to cease all bodily functions. If we do not supply ourselves with blood our metabolic systems fail and we shrivel up, go into a coma, essentially become husks."

Sherlock's gaze, locked on him, was making him uncomfortable and sweaty again. He felt his hands begin to shake.

"May I…feel your heart?"

John groaned. "Bloody hell, why?"

"Academic grounds, I assure you John. You've access to my inner functions on a voluntary basis and I've never enjoyed proximity to a vampire that enabled me to study him."

"IF I say yes, will you leave me alone and end all questions for tonight?"

"Agreed." Sherlock jumped off the couch in a sudden burst of energy and stood before John. John sighed and plunked his glass down with a thud. This was tedious but not, he had to admit, as painful as the initial confession. Sherlock was curious. It was refreshing to see someone like him in the dark, wide-eyed and fascinated as a child.

"How do you, er, how do you want to do this?" He cleared his throat.

Sherlock dropped his knees until he was eye level with John's chest. Automatically, John felt his heart gallop against his ribs. He was not aware, aside from the fangs, of any real physiological changes brought on by his vampirism. Was his heart truly different from anyone else's? He closed his eyes with a short intake of breath when Sherlock, without any pretense, pressed an ear against his chest, head fitted just under John's chin.

John swallowed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Uh--"

"Hold still." Sherlock commanded. John obeyed, keeping as still as he possibly could. He did not like this closeness, did not like being the subject of study. But on the other hand, who was he to deny his human this? This human who did not revile him, did not judge him, did not reject his lifestyle? He felt a slow rumble beginning to rise from Sherlock's chest as he hummed, deeply concentrated on whatever he was hearing.

"Are you satisfied?" He asked after a minute that felt like hours. Sherlock slowly drew away, blinking rapidly.

"Yes, John. Fascinating."

"It's no different from what you've got." John sighed. "What did you expect?"

Sherlock did not answer. He had gone back to his laptop, absorbed solely in its glare. He did not speak or look at John for the rest of the night.  
\----------------------

Crime scenes were surprisingly not a problem. Sherlock would, on occasion, flick his gaze to John whenever a scene of carnage was presented. "You alright?"

"Always." John replied. He wasn't a shark after all. 

The hunger never got in the way. That was his motto. He went to work, patched humans up all day, fed in secret and chewed in polite company. Sherlock, he found, loved watching him go through the farce of eating human food. It did nothing for him nutritionally speaking. But, like most things, it was standard ritual to accept dinner invitations and remark politely upon the taste. 

This amused Sherlock to no end. Like a little boy with an inner joke. He never stopped being inquisitive and never breathed a word of it to anyone. In time, John got to know others in Sherlock's circle of not-quite-friends. Sally, whose hackles were always up. Anderson, whose libido was always down. Lestrade, whose heart never slowed from all the caffeine and stress, who was almost as good at keeping a poker face as John. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, was suspect of him naturally. But with intelligence to match Sherlock's John was hardly surprised. He just needed a reason to trust the man had far more important government things to worry about than the vampire in the living room.

221 B was a happy place to live. John found regularity in his life with Sherlock, excitement in his quirks and thrills in unheard of places. The fascination, at least, was mutual for once and John liked this.

Secrets, however, were an issue.

He came home from work as usual, expecting all or nothing from the man upstairs. They'd just closed a case and either Sherlock was bored and shooting holes in the couch or thrumming and spastic on the heels of a new case. Today, something odd vibrated from behind the oak door. Something unnatural and hyperkinetic. John paused in the stairwell and breathed out slowly, separating his landlady's withered metronomic heart rate from Sherlock's. Sherlock's--was that even a heartbeat?

He dashed upstairs and flung open the door in time to see the unthinkable. 

Sherlock was sat limply on the floor in front of the sofa, legs splayed apart, shirt disheveled and undone. Drugs sang through his bloodstream, pupils blown wide, head lolling from side to side. He did not notice John racing to his side, smacking the syringe out of his vein.

"You BLOODY idiot!" John snarled. "You impossible--!"

Sherlock smiled as he watched a bead of blood drip down his arm to pool at his wrist. His heart was jumping erratically in his chest, his brain sending out so many electrical signals, John could practically see them sparking in the air around him like static. He glanced down at the folded paper and spoon next to Sherlock's foot. Cocaine. White powder. Injected. 

"Hell." John grunted, heaving Sherlock to his feet and propping him onto the couch to lie down. "So much for my evening. I'm starving!"

Sherlock hummed as though he couldn't hear. "John." He sang. _"John. John. John."_

"Shut up." John dug his kit out of the kitchen cabinet and set about pressing a gauze to the bleeding injection site on the inside of Sherlock's elbow. He had not injected long ago which meant he would not be coming down for a while. This cocaine was pure. No, Sherlock would most certainly be in Honalee for the next few hours. John left again to fetch a bowl of water and a flannel, stomach rumbling as he checked his watch. 

"What timing…" He muttered.

Sherlock's eyes were at half-mast as John checked his vitals. Feverish skin, shallow breathing, sweat. He was in for a full night then. John cursed and tried to come up with a plan. He could try calling Mrs. Hudson but this scene would likely frighten her. Maybe it would be alright if he just ran down to McDonald's and picked off a kid on their cig break…?

"John." Sherlock breathed. "Here."

Sherlock had lifted himself up on his elbow, struggling through the haze of his high to focus blearily on John. He'd removed the gauze and pumped his fist to reveal a gleaming crimson trail down his forearm. "More convenient, yes?"

"You did this on purpose." John spat, ripping the seal off a medical plaster. "You are lower than low, Sherlock!" He pressed the sticky plaster onto the wound and folded Sherlock's arm on top of his chest to apply light pressure. 

"You're very welcome, John." Sherlock pouted. "Didn't think you'd turn down a free lunch."

"I don't drink from junkies!" John's mouth tightened into a hard line as he pressed the damp flannel against Sherlock's forehead.

"But it's good." Sherlock panted, already sinking back into senseless nothing. "So…so good."

John covered him with the afghan, disgusted. "Shout if you need something. I'm ordering take-away."

Sherlock tossed restlessly against the sofa arm, murmuring into the pillow while John flipped through his cel phone. Blood was smeared against his fingers from Sherlock's messy attempts to--what was it? Goad him? Test him? Insult him? He licked the blood away irately, stomach growling even louder. Hunger was the best ingredient and even Sherlock's blood tasted like something now. Well, it would taste of something if it weren't saturated by those godawful narcotics. John wanted to spit the flavor out of his mouth but it was too late. His fangs had already begun emerging and if he didn't feed soon, he would be in for a world of pain later.

John found the number he needed with relief and waited for the automatic recording.

It was not honest by any means but there was more than one emergency clinic in central London that, according to record, listed John Watson as a hemophiliac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so tempting with vampires to cut straight to the sensuality but I don't imagine that is how it would go with this particular dynamic. Fun to skirt around the edges, though. There's a lot of gorgeous Vamp!Sherlock porn/romance out there which I highly recommend!


	3. For Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock proposes a rather intimate bonding session. John tries, as ever, not to kill him.

The sun rose and John called in to work. Having soaked the sofa cushions with sweat and muttered several passages of what sounded like _Dante's Inferno_ , Sherlock seemed to have come down from his high. It wasn't easy to tell at first if he was lucid or not but with his pupils regular, pulse normal and temperature down John could have cared less what came out of his mouth.

He awoke irritable and red-eyed. If he had any memory of the night before, he did not mention it. Although John tried to keep his anger preserved in preparation for the talk they should inevitably have, Sherlock's nonchalance made this difficult.

"No more almost killing yourself, please. You've got my attention."

"Are all vampires as self-centered as you? I didn't shoot up just to entice you."

John kept his rage in check; half-aware of what Sherlock was getting at.

"I've had rot experiences with drug users in Afghanistan. They can't be trusted and I need to trust that I can leave you alone for 5 minutes, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not seem pleased by this reveal but kept silent while John took his vitals one more time. After deeming him "stable enough", Sherlock got up silently and disappeared for an estimable length of time, presumably cleaning up and changing into something more comfortable. John tidied up the living room half-heartedly, having dumped out any and all traces of Sherlock's habit last night. The acrid tang of sweat from the couch would have made an average human cringe. John felt the forge rise up in is throat, gagging at the overpowering scent. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed, temples throbbing. It was not just the scent but also the drugs, the high, whatever Sherlock had seen behind his closed eyes lingered. 

With a growl, he ripped the offending cushions off the sofa and dumped them outside, intending to send them to the cleaner's. Sherlock re-emerged dressed in day clothes and ready to carry on as usual. Phone calls to the Yard, people to harass across the intrawebs, maybe a little innocuous tea and an angry vampire to avoid.

John was having none of it.

"You're a junkie." John said, wrenching the iPhone out of Sherlock's hand and sitting down in front of him. "I'm a vampire. I'd say we have a few things in common."

"Not nearly." Sherlock sniffed. "I can control my impulses when I need to whereas you--"

"As can I." John cut him off, curtly. "But sooner or later, the way you sustain your habit is going to leave a messy trail."

Sherlock blinked innocently, the git. "In what way is a body count not messy?"

It took the will of several saints to restrain John from bashing his brains in.

"Look John, I realize as a pair we'd make dreary daytime chat telly even more dreary but just so you're aware, there is nothing about my lifestyle that I regard in any way extreme or repugnant. Do you understand?"

John sat back in his chair incredulously, lips pursed into a tight furious line. "Extreme." He repeated, brows raised slightly. "If I hadn't found you--"

"--then Mrs. Hudson would have. She has, you know. And I'd have been trucked off to Mycroft's for a proper scold and rehab. You'd have seen very little of me for the better part of a month and would have been extremely happy."

"Don't speak for me, Sherlock. I'm angry with you as it is."

Sherlock hummed, folding his hands beneath his chin. 

"Anger. Hmmm. Yes. Why? Aside from last night's incident which…" He faltered and to John that split second was like Christmas and his birthday combined. "….I do, in hindsight regret you had to see."

"Sherlock--" John began but shut his mouth when he realized Sherlock had stopped listening.

"It can't be very easy for you as a vampire to take out your frustrations the way normal people do."

John snorted. "And I suppose you're a specialist on what normal people do?"

"That's just it, John. I'm not one of them. They're mine to observe. Surely, you can relate?"

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock cringed back, comically.

"Oh…OH, maybe you can't?"

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're getting at but it's late, I am tired, no less ticked with you really and about to feed."

"May I…observe?"

John paused as though he hadn't heard correctly. 

"You're joking."

"I'm not." Sherlock's damnable eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "May I...watch you...feed?"

"Why in bloody hell should I let you watch me--?"

"What of it? It's no more incredible than someone like me tucking into a curry. Are you shy?"

John recoiled, spluttering. 

"No! And I eat a hell of a lot more regularly than you do."

"Which means a lot more carotids opened up in London. Or do you prefer radial these days?"

When John blew out his breath, he was barely aware that he'd exhaled the word "Idiot". He wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or intrigued but the look on Sherlock's face was absolutely genuine. He actually wanted to watch. Some people liked to make a fetish of his kind, as though blood-drinking were a sexual act of some sort. Some got off on it. Some vampires even charged a fee to entertain a sick few admirers but this? What was this exactly? Not a light request, certainly.

"I can't guarantee your safety. Could be da--"

Sherlock grinned as though he were being offered a cupcake. John shuddered. He'd never had an audience at his particular dinner table. He barely even enjoyed dining with other vampires. A feed for him was just that, not something to be shared or even savored. It was a necessity, nothing more.

"I realize, John, not all vampires are foodies but I am interested in observing you during such a vital aspect of your current stasis. Your choice of victim, your rituals, your hunting grounds, it would be quite fascinating as a dissertation."

"You've got some cheek asking me this, not when I've saved your life to treat me like some experiment!"

"Think of it as the highest compliment you could ever receive! A silent witness to your crime, so to speak. A non-judgmental observer. I'm a scientist John. Everything I do has a purpose. Observing you on a hunt isn't just for kicks, I assure you. I hold you in far higher regard than that."

"What is it for, then?" John was ready to explode. "A running record of my victims?"

"So I'll know what to do when I become one." 

The air left John's lungs momentarily and had he not been sitting down, the hunger and rage would have sent him down reeling. 

"You….you said when?"

"Only a matter of time."

"Bollocks, Sherlock! Bloody bollocks! I'll agree to you tagging along while I eat out but if you think I'll turn on you."

"I don't think anything, John." Sherlock stood, towering one John with all his height. The clock chimed eleven, the metronomic tick matching the thrum in Sherlock's veins. All John could hear inside his head was "damn. him. damn. him."

John didn't speak, couldn't really if he wanted to. He was agonizing, light-headed and aggravated. He needed to feed and quickly. 

"The night is young, John. Theaters will be emptying, pubs overcrowding, alleys lined with morsels up to no good. Shall we walk?" 

John caught his breath and steadied himself before rising.

"Alright." He looked Sherlock square in the eye. "You win. But once past that threshold, the rules are mine. Any slip from you and I'll have to find a new flat. Clear?"

Sherlock grinned like a child at Christmas. "As day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! So the plot thickens once more! Let's see what John decides to snack on.


	4. I Dare You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock convinces John to allow him to observe a hunt. Again, John does not kill him.

The summer darkness was ideal, balmy and disorienting to drunk humans at the end of their day. Easy prey cared less about a missing pint or two at this time of night and the glamor was easy to work. Not that John ever considered himself a catch. Not being a tall, pale, gorgeous creature actually worked in his favor most nights. Advertisement and flirtation were not, he found, best practices in his line of nutrition. The art was in the subtlety of the pursuit. Sherlock, however, could not help but attract attention. John sighed as he surveyed the late night pub crowd wandering the alleyways. 

Though Sherlock was ever attentive, hanging onto every word, and behaving rather like tarnished gold, he was still a hindrance.

John had threatened him into silence well before leaving, all questions to be held after the act (if he were lucky enough to score at all). John had every intention of filling in blanks on the way, of course, though he'd never seen feeding as anything to talk about. It was rather like a guided tour.

"You choose your victims from above." Sherlock stated. "Though you don't rely on vision primarily."

 

"What did I say about quiet?" John hissed. 

Sherlock was sensible enough not to test his anger while famished as he tried to weed out a candidate. A stand out in a crowd like this would be single, slightly overaged for a pub and looking for conversation. Man or woman, at this rate he was starving and it hardly mattered. Too young was looking for a brawl but he'd handled fisticuffs before in search of dinner. Old blood wasn't as delicious but it would serve.

His gaze narrowed on a solitary glare of LCD screen, a lone caller standing on the corner trying to hail a cab. The young woman was more tired than drunk, swaying slightly as she punched in a text. Distracted, broke and spent, John felt it was the best chance he'd have tonight.

"There." John murmured as he leapt nimbly onto the fire escape.

"Can't you merely jump from here?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure. That wouldn't attract attention at all." John stuck his hand in his pocket as he raced down the fire scape to the street below, leaving Sherlock far behind in pursuit of his prey. He focused on the dull thud of the woman's heart, letting it and the vibrations of her phone guide him. No witnesses to the act except Sherlock. This would be a milk run.

He didn't bother with words when he found her, fumbling dazedly in her handbag. Maybe for a light. Maybe for cab fare. A quick pinch to the neck and she was down. Guiding her lip arm over his shoulder, he looked around for a greasy spoon. Finding none, he settled for a deserted bus stop bench. He propped her up against his side, feeling her warm sleepy heat against him. His mouth watered.

John gently brushed her hair aside and bent her neck gracefully upwards. From a third party view, he imagined his current pose would suggest a harlequin novel but this was all business. Lowering his head, his lips found the beat of her pulse and the fangs sank in.

She jerked mildly but did not wake. It would not take long to feed but he was hungry enough to barely notice Sherlock running up the street from where he'd been abandoned.

"John! Is this--?"

John retracted his fangs momentarily, feeling the sticky wetness of her blood on his chin. "I've only a short window of time here so would you mind?"

Sherlock held up his hands as though to say not at all. 

John resumed his course, letting the warm blood fill his mouth slowly. She was in good shape and healthy, there was no need to adjust pace or position. He settled into the rhythm of her heart, ignoring the rabbit's pace coming from Sherlock's direction. 

"She's pale." Sherlock noted after about twenty eight seconds. With blood-letting, one measured in seconds if one didn't want to clean up a corpse.

"Yes." John lifted his head, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. "I'm done."

"What about her?"

John leaned her back, pressing a napkin to her throat to soak up from the tiny puncture wounds.

"She'll wake up drowsy and hopefully in time for the last bus."

"And that's all? Sherlock blinked.

"Fairly much, yes." John shrugged, getting up from the bench with a stretch and a groan. "Now I've got work in the morning so--"

"Still a bit peckish." Sherlock stood directly in front of him, arms crossed. John grunted.

"Look, don't tell me what I'm--"

"I need more data."

"Who bloody cares about data at this hour? I've fed enough to tide me over until morning rush hour. Now please--"

 

"Why don't we up the ante this time?" Sherlock's eyes were gleaming again, his mouth quirked up in a smile, fingers clasped together. John steeled his patience before he spoke.

"I'm not about to get thrown into a holding cell to feed your curiosity!"

"I need to understand how you do that trick."

"What trick?"

"The glamor."

"It's not a glamor, its hypnosis. II'll give them a cut, tell them to breathe, look the other way and its done."

"Your fangs absorb the blood that fast?"

"If I prefer."

"And you do."

"At times. It's convenient. The quicker I feed, the quicker I can send them on their way. Now can we please go home?"

"So much trouble you take, John. Ever gone all the way by accident? Take off more than you could chew if you'll forgive the pun?"

"Rarely. Not pretty. Now will you shut up?" John elbowed his way past Sherlock, walking far and away from the deserted bus stop and back into the busier thoroughfare. It was bad enough Sherlock had watched him feed but it could have been worse? He was full now, tired and irritated. Though normally sated and calm after a feed, Sherlock's energy was grating on him. Sherlock followed after, silently at first, until they reached the corner of Baker Street.

"I don't know John. I'd say a holding cell might be a perfect place to grab a free lunch."

"Spend enough time in them yourself, do you?"

"I have. I can assure, no one cares what goes on in a holding cell. You could feed until the sun came up."

"Dug addicts and drunks aren't my taste and I'd much rather spend the night in bed, thank you."

It was startling the way Sherlock could suddenly insert himself in John's space. If he wasn't careful, he'd lose a tooth. Bad habit among ex-military men. 

 

"What if I posed this as a personal challenge?" His words kept John frozen against his will. If either of them could "glamor", Sherlock was certainly the upper hand. John sighed, his bones creaking from exhaustion.

"Is there any part of "knackered" that you DO understand because I'm ready to--"

Before he could finish, Sherlock had a phone thrust in his face, a photo of an all too familiar place flickering on the screen.

"There."

John frowned down at the image and blinked in shock.

"This… is New Scotland Yard. Sherlock, why would you want me to--?"

Sherlock gave no reply, waiting for the light to dawn. When it did, John had his answer immediately. 

"Absolutely not."

"Which means yes." Sherlock was unperturbed. John's shoulders shook with tired laughter, completely done in.

"My God, you're asking me to drink from the Detective Inspector. Isn't he a friend?"

"Lestrade is more useful than most but that's all. So, let's not waste time."

John worked very hard at putting his foot down.

"No. Seriously, Sherlock. Absolutely no. Not tonight or any night. I am not going to feed on Lestrade just so you can get off."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As ever you cheapen the motive."

"Why on earth would you want me to--?"

"To see if you will."

It irked him how conveniently and sanctimoniously right Sherlock was at all times. If he could hit the man and get away with it, he would. Somehow though, tapping the veins from anonymous strangers was far more polite than striking Sherlock Holmes. One more nagging question, however.

"But what are you gaining?"

"Nothing so much as what you'd be gaining. Now hurry up. It's midnight, Lestrade will be on his fourth cuppa depending on how many toilet breaks he's given himself in the last hour and the eyestrain will be doing him in shortly. If we're not quick, he'll be on the last local out of Central and we'll be out an opportunity." Sherlock had already raised his hand for a taxi.

"Love how my feeds have become a "we" endeavor." John grumbled as he was shoved forcefully into the backseat. 

Sherlock, John knew, was an expert at opening things. Entering undetected was a talent he'd seen Sherlock put to use many times, particularly when he'd just dozed off on the sofa after a long night. It was not very difficult to talk their way in past security at the Yard, the guards well familiarized with Sherlock's habits. John didn't much like the die of this feeding challenge but he was getting very hungry indeed and the London public was, for once, not in season.

The sodium lights flickered on and off irritating his night eyes as Sherlock smooth glided his way through the grey maze of cubicles to the glass encased private office. Through the enlarged swinging doors, he could see the Detective Inspector rubbing his eyes and yawning, the telltale signs of alcohol on his breath and 5-hour energy drinks gone bust. John focused just for a moment to be sure. Sluggish heart rate, overworked and fatigued. Ready to drop off at any moment. Ducking down behind a desk, they waited. John listened in silence as the Detective's heart beat fell into the predictable pattern of sleep. 

"Is he asleep?" Sherlock hissed, his voice startling him out of his reverie. 

"Wha--?"

"You're taking his pulse, I presume." Sherlock kept his voice conspiratorially low.

"Yes. He's dropped off now. Been on and off for a few hours."

"I pickpocket Lestrade on a monthly basis. Isn't it restful knowing the man charged with safekeeping London is so generous with his attention span?"

"That's…cruel, Sherlock." John whispered.

"The man is thick to begin with and so frazzled at the end of each day he barely remembers his own address, bless him. Nothing short of a direct bomb attack will wake him now, I imagine."

"I think you could well imagine a lot." John commented but Sherlock ignored him.

"I don't suppose you'll need much to take him but as a friendly tip, he's recently nicked himself shaving."

"How did you--?" John paused then thought better of it. "Nevermind. Thanks. Er, be right back."

The detective was fortunately not slumped over his file-laden desk but resting comfortably back in his large leather chair, he'd turned to one side snoring gently on his shoulder. Barely breathing, John entered. The heavy thump of Lestrade's heart mingled with the overexcited pace of Sherlock's was making his head pound and his hunger gnaw his insides. John stepped easily beside the inspector's limp body and surveyed the situation carefully. 

There, at his jawline, a nick just crusted over, still red. Not a terribly deep cut but then he didn't need to excavate. Having tested his own fangs on himself, the proper bite could feel like nothing more than a mosquito's itch, something to be swatted away. John lowered his head and sniffed.

Sweat day old, coffee, and stress wasn't a very appetizing aroma but by now John hardly cared. Tension thrummed through his body and the adrenaline made his head swim. With a flick of his tongue, the fangs extended, needle-sharp above his gum line. Like the solider he once was, he bent and pressed his lips to the sleeping detective's throat. 

Immediately, the heart rate picked up, surging faster as it was drawn up into his mouth. Thick and red and utterly delicious. John had to fight to stop himself and glance at his watch. Seconds counted in this game. Lestrade twitched mildly in his sleep, brows knitted together gently but did not wake. John's eyes closed to savor the taste, then flicked at his watch again.

5…4…3…2…1

He broke off with a slight gasp as Lestrade turned his head and groaned. His heart was beating stronger now, coming slowly back to consciousness. John panicked, swiping at his mouth, rubbing the faint traces of blood away from his lips. He was in mid-dash out the glass doors when a loud yawn and a groan froze his muscles solid.

"Hell…" John muttered.

"Christ, John! Sherlock got you to tag along did he?"

John breathed out shakily, checked his expression and turned around.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you, Inspector." John held up his hands guiltily. "Was Sherlock, see. He insisted on coming to you with a lead but seeing as you were asleep and all."

"Like that bloody matters to him. Cheeky sot needs a remote control." Lestrade's fingers flew to the warmth at his chin, frowning slightly at the blood there. "Damn. Nicked myself this morning. Must've opened again."

"Hate it when that happens." John agreed. 

"Oi, tell Sherlock I've got plenty of old paperwork should he veer decide to put his god-given talents to clerical droning. Where is he anyway?"

Sherlock was suddenly and startlingly there, standing between them as though he'd materialized from mist. John silently promised he would learn that trick someday. 

"Evening, inspector. Burning the midnight oil?"

"You know it." Lestrade cracked his stiff shoulders, rubbing at his neck with a Kleenex. 

"All too well, Inspector." Sherlock smiled thinly. "Well, come along John. We'd best leave London's finest to his work. Carry on."

Lestrade grunted, folded his arms on his desk and proceeded to do just that.


	5. Biggest Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's infatuation with John's vampiric side gets John more and more riled. Just when this reaches its pinnacle, John learns to redefine the term "fan". Not all humans deserve your love, John.

Were he not what he was--a desperate middle-aged bloodsucker--this ploy would be humiliating. Men in his demographic did not haunt such dens unless they had some repressed sexual issues or other pathological need. Clubs were revolting places but as feeding grounds went, they were none too challenging. Few saw him for what he really was (and who could with the cheap liquor and pounding music?) and those that did…? 

John sighed into his whiskey straight.

Fans, he had to admit, were embarrassing. Young or old, male or female, ardor often masked their naivety. This left him in a very uncomfortable place. He felt sorry for some and genuinely concerned for others, particularly the ones who forgot he could kill.  There were rare ones who sought his kind out for death and John had on more than one occasion been faced with the uncomfortable position of turning down a direct plea for murder.

"You won't just slip away." John always warned them. "Death is not a dream and I am not your man. Have a sleep. Sober up. Get some help in the morning."

He never approved of the reputations some vampires carved for themselves. Angels of Mercy. Demon Lovers, Washed Out Eighties Romantics, Gods. All rubbish.  

It was rude to ask anyone to play personal executioner. 

 

_Someone to hear your prayers, someone who cares…._

_Oh God._ John took a long swallow from his whiskey. _Half this lot probably haven't the slightest clue who Depeche Mode is._

John had to smirk at that. What a human thought. What a very mortal thought.  He had all the time in the world, after all. As vampires could go, he was rather a youngster himself. Somewhere out there in London some wretched undying bloke sat thinking: _"You wankers probably haven't the slightest clue I shagged the Brontes AND Talbot."_

He could sigh and mope at home, he supposed. Stare at Sherlock poring over his cases and nibble a slice of sand (toast). Or he could mingle with the fans.

 

The vast majority of fans, often female and outright sweet, were to John's conclusion decisively bonkers. Their enthusiasm, however, was embarrassing albeit helpful. They thrilled at John's fingers  (any fingers) on their throats, at his conservative clothing and laid-back demeanor. He would quietly sit at their table (a booth, always), chat a little and politely buy them a drink in exchange for a nutritious, well-balanced snog as he jokingly termed it. It was just routine, really.  They are almost always alone and all for the better. Group feeds were harder to manage and the key to all charm is to make someone feel singular, special, and wanted.

 

Worked surprising well on men too, if John were to be honest.  But then again the needs of this scenario were primal and very much instinctive.  The first and most basic of these, however, was company.

 

"My flat or the loo?" She had far too much eye makeup on. Half would end up on his shirtfront before the night was through. Oh well, maybe Sherlock would see it and deduce it as a sign of sexual prowess though knowing Sherlock, "sexual" and "prowess" never ate at the same table.

 

"Thanks." If John had just fed, he would have felt himself flush on her behalf. "Er, I don't like to eat in public restrooms. Unsanitary, you know."

 

She snorted a nicotine-heavy laugh. "Funny, you are. Fuck…" Drowsiness and lust were beginning to overtake her.  Her gaze fluttered up to his face, biting her lip. "Are you even a real one, then? Don't tell me you're some posing tosser!"

 

John flicked his fangs at her briefly in answer. She recoiled at first but couldn't help drawing closer in for a look.

 

"Fuckin hell!" The shocked pleasure on her face instantly warped, eyeing him dubiously. "You're nothing like the last bloke I took home."

 

"Not your average, Vlad." John shrugged with a grin he knew to be boyish. "We're not all cut-outs are we?" 

 

"Probably one of them drain them and leave them types, you are." She tamped out her cigarette against the table.

 

"My name is John." He said, hoping to put her at ease. Her heartbeat was tripping like a hummingbird. "I am a vampire. I am hungry and you…" He cued this delivery to its fullest, catching her gaze when she, taken aback, stared at him. "….are beautiful." His fingers tapped her wrist, gently lifting them to his lips to press a chaste kiss over her pulsepoint. Horribly cliched, ripped from the pages of Anne Rice herself but brilliantly effective. She was down. Dinner was not far off.

 

"Joanne. Charmed." She wrapped an arm over his shoulder, pressing herself temptingly close. Her scent was overpowering.   John helped himself to a good huff of her scented hair before honing in.

 

"Right then.  Here and now, if you don't mind?" He exhaled lightly onto her neck to get the blood going and thrilled at her shudder. Her breathing picked up, eyes closed in ecstasy. None of that mattered to John.

 

"Thank you." He murmured over the distracting thud of the music, lips on her throat. He tasted the salt on her skin and the tang of alcohol she'd consumed already. 

 

"Mnn." Too far gone for coherent speech, her heart thumped away like mad. She barely registered the press of his fangs when they sank in. He drank as well as he could, trying to politely reposition her body when she ground her hips wantonly against him. Soon enough her appreciative adrenaline fell along with her blood pressure. She gasped and squeaked when he drew back one final gulp,  heart stuttering and spent.  

He wiped his lips on her ruffled shirt collar and laid her gently down. She was breathing regularly when he bent over her limp body and pressed a bar napkin over the slow oozing puncture marks. He hadn't overestimated. He was warm and full and ready to head back.  

"I'm next."

Before he could react, Sherlock had shoved the comatose body on the bench aside and she crumpled to the floor.  Shocked, John scrambled to gather her back into his arms, aware that the eyes of the bartender as well as the bodyguards could be on them.

 

“Sherlock! What in bloody HELL are you doing here?”  John picked her up and laid her peaceful body across the vinyl seat next to him.   “Do you want to get us both tossed out???”

 

Sherlock seemed hardly troubled, making himself comfortable in the booth, playing with the candle on the table.

 

“Relax. Drugged, comatose girls are hardly out of the ordinary here. Have you tried the absinthe?”

 

“Bloody hell Sherlock! I thought you were at home! Why did you follow me?”

 

Sherlock sat back smugly in his seat.

 

"Research."

 

"Not again! Sherlock, we've been through this. I am not an experiment. Didn’t you get your fill of me already?"

 

“Never enough, John. You’re far too full of mysteries to unravel.”

 

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you unraveled me in less inopportune settings!”

 

“What better setting for research?” Sherlock was the picture of innocence.

 

“Harassment, more like.” John interjected.

 

"Intriguing how you prey on the girls. Is it more nutritious taking them when they're still conscious and revved up on their lust for the supernatural?"

 

"What?” John frowned.

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste at the young lady dreaming across the pleather cushion of the booth. "Do you ever have sex with them?"

 

"I fail to see how that’s relevant.” John drew himself back, feeling more put off than anything else.

 

Sherlock leaned forward.

 

 “Really, how's the sex life? I'm sure it's easy pickings for you what with your general aura of otherworldly mystique."

 

"It's….fine." John snarled.

 

"Which means it isn't. Interesting. Why? Do you still find need for regular fornication? Require it more before or after you were turned?"

 

"Why is any of that important?" John felt his rage surging uncomfortably in his voice. If he had been peckish, he might have fled the scene altogether and not bothered with Sherlock at all. But instead of a cutting retort, Sherlock cocked his head, heart thudding louder than the base of the boom box. 

 

"We live together, John." He said in an inexplicable voice. "I want to help you."

 

"Help me?" John shook his head, perplexed.

 

"Yes.” Sherlock’s words were like spitfire, eyes dancing in the hectic strobe light of the club “Help you live this fantasy of the mundane, boring lifestyle you so drearily and mysteriously covet.  Therefore I need to know which girls I should leave the biscuits for in the morning and which the gauze? Or are eating and copulation more or less the same thing for a vampire?"

 

If John had ever wanted to hit the man before, he felt the current time and place would earn him the least notice. Someone might even shake his hand.  The idea of Sherlock being conscientious of anything regarding another person's relationship with the outside world was enough to give him pause. Was being an object of intense study Sherlock’s own bizarre way of showing…what? Affection? Devotion? In the end, he was not one hundred percent sure and didn’t want to risk what one his left hooks might do to the man.       

 

"Excuse me." John gathered his coat, hastily leaving the booth and Sherlock behind him.

 

The cooler air outside settled the commotion under his skin, fists shoved deep in his pockets as he strode up the street. Veering past drunk couples and steering clear of the pubcrawler mobs, he let the noise of the city drown out Sherlock’s voice.

 

Sherlock, however, had long legs and for all of John’s attempts to avoid him, Sherlock’s habit of materializing was getting downright eerie.

 

“Leave it, Sherlock.” John warned before Sherlock could even open his mouth. “I’m not in the mood.” He knew full well he’d be ignored.

 

“This can’t wait for your mood, John.” Sherlock pressed, keeping stride with John’s angry pace. “You have to hear me!”

 

“I don’t actually.” John snorted. “I’m going to say this only once in our relationship and mean it. Piss off!”

 

If John had looked closely at Sherlock’s face he might have caught the barest trace of hurt there. But he was listening instead to Sherlock’s blood, tripping and skipping like haywire.

 

“Out of your system?” Sherlock’s calm voice belied his heart rate.  “Good. Now, as I was saying. These questions are not designed to satisfy some cheap, idle fantasy. I entertain very few illusions, John, if any and I don’t abide them under the same roof. It doesn’t bloody matter to me what you are, it matters to me that you and I co-exist to our fullest potential.”

 

“And that is….?”

 

“Work with me, John.”

 

John stopped in his tracks. “Work with you? Don’t I already? Following you about like some mad detective?”

 

“Yes, but that’s not the point.  Haven't you ever wanted to do a good deed?" Sherlock's eyes were on fire again, face hectic and energized.

 

“What are you on about?”

 

"I mean, have you ever been witness to a heinous wrong and wished to see it right?"  

 

"I was a soldier." John shot back. "AND a doctor. I bled good deeds!"

 

" _Was?_ Surely, there must exist people you've wanted to put an end to."

 

"Yes. But I am not above the law, Sherlock. That’s the difference between you and me. Let's make one thing clear. I feed to survive, I don't kill.”

 

"Anymore." Sherlock supplied helpfully.

 

"Right." John felt his pressure rising, his face flushed and hot. He slammed his fist against the nearest building to feel better but Sherlock was unmoved.

 

"You like people. It’s not a crime. That’s why you fix them. You still fancy you are one therefore you won't play God. Funny little contradiction you are." Sherlock was behind him, a safe distance away.

 

John turned slowly from the brick wall he had scraped his knuckles on and stood back a little in surprise. It took him a moment to  realize where he was. Home. Their home. On Baker Street. He’d walked all the way back and barely noticed. What an effect that man had on him. He exhaled deeply, rubbed the spot between his eyes. A cuppa would set him right again. A nice cuppa and a few minutes of midnless telly and this entire evening would un-happen.

 

“I’m tired, Sherlock. If that’s all—“

 

 “I’ve upset you.” Sherlock’s tone was not apologetic but it was not matter of fact either. Just an observation.

 

“Just noticed?”

 

“I’m—“ Sherlock was obviously having difficulty with the next phrase, something normal people would have little trouble expelling from their psyche but the great Sherlock Holmes had finally struck a reef. John stopped chewing his lip and schooled his face sternly enough to force a smile.  The smile took Sherlock off guard and that suited John just fine as apologies went.

 

“Right. Well, you work on that apology. I’m for bed.” He dashed up the stairs, Sherlock silent and enigmatic in tow.

 

A strange noise makes him pause on the foyer.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Someone….someone's in the flat."

 

Sherlock had stopped moving, a phantom at the doorframe, only the pale flash of his throat hinting he was even alive.  John, three steps already past the threshold,  frowned and opened his mouth to speak when he too was drawn up short.

 

A well dressed man in an expensive suit is calmly flipping through their mail. John felt his skin crawl in revulsion. Who in bloody hell breaks into someone's flat just to go through their mail. Sherlock was a shadow behind him. Still and silent and thrumming with…what now? Excitement? Anger? Fear? Could hardly tell with Sherlock.

 

"Ta. Oh, I'm not here to see you, whatever you are. I'm here for the mortal freak of nature." He gave a subtle wave behind John to Sherlock who did not respond.

 

John was flabbergasted. Turning from the strange, uppity man seated too comfortably in his own living room and Sherlock's quiet rage.

 

"What in hell--? Get out! Now! I'm calling the--"

 

To his further enragement, the little man rolled his eyes, ignoring John's rage elegantly.

 

"Sherlock, did he come packaged this way or did you **make** him a troglodyte?" The man stood and stretched, causally tossing the mail onto the coffee table. He regarded John with a half-interested look, one hand in his pocket. He said nothing. His pulse, now that John could think through the red, was a calculated tick tock that did not waver even as he sized him up.

 

"Who are you?" Sherlock spoke at last.

 

"Jim Moriarty." The Irish lilt now made sense. "And I don't like what you’re doing, Sherlock.” He shook his head. “Not at all."

 

"We've hardly met." Sherlock countered evenly.

 

"But we have. Once upon a dream." Sang the curious little man. "I've been watching you, Sherlock Holmes. You and those around you." Through a glance of distaste, John's skin prickled.

 

"Lots of people disapprove of what I do. What makes you special?" Sherlock was like a snake, moving by millimeters. The slightest tilt of the head, the faintest flicker of an eye, his body held in perfect check. Even his heart, John could hear the composed tempo of that great pulse, unchanging in what could only be called a tense showdown.

 

Dear Lord, he was a bleeding vampire! Why was he the only one in the room on the verge of hysteria?

 

He tried very hard to keep his voice low, controlled and threatening, fists clenched.

 

"Look here Mr. Moriarty. I don't know who you are but I am warning you. If you don't--"

 

The man called Moriarty snorted derisively, cutting him off by addressing Sherlock. "See why you like him. Keep him on a short leash." He made his way casually towards the door, with deliberately timed steps, pausing to stand beside the stock-still detective. Sherlock did not make a move to acknowledge him, did not even turn his head. Moriarty sneered, sidling up close to Sherlock’s body with a reptilian ease.

 

"It was believed by the American Sioux that the fastest way to earn the biggest cajones was to reach out and touch your enemy without hurting him.”

 

Sherlock's lip curled but he made no move. Moriarty smirked, pressing the back of his hand against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock did not even flinch as the little man drew nearer to whisper in his ear. Despite his keen hearing, John's own blood was thundering too loud for him to make out what he said before he turned on his heel. He glanced back at John with a slight smile and was gone.

 

"Let him go." Sherlock ordered as the door clicked terrifyingly shut behind him. John was beyond hearing, his body reacting on the defensive. His firearm was out of the drawer and in his hand but Sherlock was swiftly and firmly between him and the door, voice raised in alarm.

 

"No John, let. him. GO!"

 

John shuddered, dropping the gun on the floor as they both breathed in the commotion of shattered nerves and pounding hearts. Sherlock’s adrenaline had kicked in, only now had his brain gotten the message to fight or flight. His pulse raced in double time and it was all John could do to push the sound away and focus on words.

 

“Who was that then?”

 

“My fan.” Sherlock breathed.

 

“What?!”

 

“Apparently, I’ve a fan.” Sherlock closed his eyes.

 

John fumed. “How did he get in here? The door was locked. You don’t suppose Mrs. Hudson--?”

 

He saw his flatmate’s eyes widen, pupils dark and blown. Sherlock Holmes. Panicked. Not thrilled or intrigued but genuinely shaken. John shut this out, focused on the muted sounds below. “No. No, she’s alright. Downstairs. Watching telly, I can hear it.”

 

Sherlock’s breathing settled a bit but he was still rattled to his core. Slowly he made his way to the sofa and sat down, fingers steepled snugly beneath his chin. John, on the other hand, could not relax--pacing the darkness between the window and the kitchen.

 

“Well, are you just going to sit and have a think? Shouldn’t we be calling Lestrade?” John tried very hard not to explode.

 

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock’s monotone slowed him if it did not entirely relax him. “The man broke into MY flat without detection what hope do you think Lestrade has in finding him?”

 

“Then _we_ have to find him, Sherlock." John said urgently. "You and me.“

 

“And then…?” Sherlock stared at him.

 

John didn’t have a real answer so his right brain shot one out for him—the stuff of fantasy really but then again, that's what his life had become since he met Sherlock Homes.

 

“I’ll tear his throat out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This chapter was in limbo for the longest time but I am glad it's finished. The next chapter is already in the works. We'll see how the plot thickens from there. This is possibly my longest chapter but I think this is where the curiosity ends for Sherlock and the practicality begins.


	6. The Government of Britain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John come calling on a useful ally after their encounter with Moriarty

John knew well he should have expected the inquisitive tilt of the head, the bow lips of that absurd mouth to spread upward into a smile. Sherlock’s reaction to a home invasion was perfectly adept for him. John, on the other hand, was seething. Adrenaline, or whatever vampires felt when their covens were threatened, was still making his skin crawl.

“Are we very convinced that was a man?” Sherlock pressed his fingertips together.

“I can't believe that’s your first question!” John had never wanted to strangle Sherlock as much as he did at that moment. “We’ve just been—“

“—invited.” Sherlock finished for him.

“That, of course, was the last word I’d have chosen.” John sighed, quickly checking his gums to make sure his fangs had not sprung out.

Now that they were alone again, his rage from the intrusion was receding. The craving still surged in his veins but whether or not this was a sign of hunger (possibly) or territorial madness, he was not certain. Had he been able to identify the intruder clearly? Mark any of the signs? He had to admit, he couldn’t be sure. Heaven help them if he did prove to be a blood drinker. Two vampires feeding from one overblown mortal ego was enough to spoil Sunday dinners for good. 

“You’re utterly thrilled aren’t you?” John collapsed onto the sofa. 

“You needn’t rely on my vitals to know that.” Sherlock stood up and began his irksome pacing ritual, humming the entire time.

“Your choice of phrase. _Tear his throat out?_ How much more thrilling does life get for your type?”

“Hang on—“ John could feel the hair on his neck still on edge.

“He came to make himself known. I should think he realizes exactly what kind of thing you are.” Sherlock murmured.

“He’s obviously a psychopath, whatever he is. A mad human is one thing, a mad vampire on the hand--.”

“—is gorgeous!” Sherlock gazed out the window, eyes scanning the streets below. In a flash, his coat was on and he was headed out the door. Sherlock’s quickness made him almost supernatural. John scurried to keep up. 

“Wait, where are we going?” John was still shrugging on his coat as Sherlock raised his hand for a cab.

“To visit the Queen.”

 

John had no idea what Sherlock meant by anything these days but he was shocked when their cab pulled up to an office building adjoining Buckingham Palace. Sherlock was silent for the entire trip, a rarity for him, and John relished the silence though his head was humming like a hive of bees.

Sherlock made no reply to his simple questions. He had entered into one of his enigmatic states that shut out all mankind. If there was a hint of brooding in his silent contemplation, John would hardly be surprised. In either case, he gave nothing away about their destination which made John’s shock all the more palpable when the car slowed to a halt before Buckingham Palace.

At first glance, the man who met them behind the heavily guarded oak doors was significantly less angular. A metronome of a heartbeat, and precisely manicured everything else, he was quite taken aback when this same man offered Sherlock nothing more than a bored sigh and him a freshly warmed mug of type O negative.

“Terribly sorry.” The man’s thin tolerant smile at John’s bewilderment seemed to annoy Sherlock. “I completely forgot you took antibodies with your afternoon repast.”

John was appalled. His most internal secret laid bare in a matter of seconds by an ultra posh, slightly rotund gentleman! John blinked in shock. It had taken Sherlock at least a week of living together to blurt it out. But then, speaking and knowing with Sherlock Holmes were two entirely different things. John was about to say something, anything at all in reaction when Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly. 

“Save your breath, John. Mycroft knows all and what he doesn’t, others are finding out for him. Feel free to accept? Rest assured it was donated willingly.”

“And who just keeps cups of donated blood lying about as though it were instant coffee?”

“My brother.”

John blinked. “Sorry. Your whom?”

Mycroft crossed his leg over one knee and settled back into his chair.

“Oh hasn’t he told you?” The knowing smirk at least, was in the family. “You must forgive my errant younger brother, he has abominable retention when it comes to family. As for myself, all you need know is that I work for an extremely large, extremely versatile clientele.” The man somehow managed to make everything around him appear incredibly dull. John could only imagine what he must be like in bed. Nonetheless, he politely accepted the chair Mycroft gestured him towards. 

In contrast to his brother, Sherlock’s patience was non-existent. Or maybe he only acted that way around this man? Without even bothering to be seated, Sherlock got directly to business. 

“Tell me what you know about my fan base.” He demanded. Over the rim of his cup, John started and nearly had to spit a precious mouthful back. After the myriad of code words and firewalls Sherlock had been obliged to ignore just to gain entrance, it was very vulgar indeed to demand anything of this man he called brother. 

Mycroft heaved another burdened sigh. “Really Sherlock, must you come to me with frivolities when I have the Annual Summit in Dubai to settle and Ministers to assuage…”

“I won’t ask again, Mycroft.” Sherlock pressed in the same quiet tone though it was unclear to John whether this was a promise or a threat. “Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. Talk.”

“You refer, of course, to the break in of earlier today.” With a beleaguered grunt, Mycroft rose from his cushioned seat and with a quick stride across the silent carpeting, plucked a thin manila file from atop a stack of many. This he offered to Sherlock who snatched it greedily. John watched in fascination as the information exchange between the brothers volleyed back and forth like a tennis match between androids. Two hearts suddenly began to thump in sync.

“Classified. Not on MET radar at the moment though barely recognized in some parts of the Arab Nation claiming to control formidable stores of uranium.”

“Rumored to have assisted in the murder of several key drug warlords in —“

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock cut him off.

“In addition, he was linked to the kidnappings of nine prominent international—“

“Boring!” Sherlock sneered.

“—chihuahuas.” Mycroft finished, staring his brother directly in the face with an expression of smugness John was sure Sherlock had been raised on. The detective was now visibly agitated, shoving his fists into his pockets. _‘Probably stop himself from hurling any of the expensive details strewn about the office.’_ Thought John.

“Someone has threatened my life and that of my compatriot and the Great Network of Britain makes cheap jokes.”

“What I say is rarely cheap, brother mine.” Mycroft was suddenly very interested in the sheen on his fingernails. “This monumental waste of my time will come out of your allowance.”

“Give me more!” Sherlock growled as though Mycroft were hiding a boiled sweet. Mycroft, for his part, regarded this impossible man with the expertly concealed contempt of a dignitary. This was a man born in the public eye and bred for it. His heart rate never faltered even once under Sherlock’s petulant tantrum. John held his breath. 

“You’ll note, brother mine, that the file is thin.” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. “We are only just becoming aware of the many aliases of Jim Moriarty. What interest he has in you only Heaven knows and they’re not talking.”

“Mycroft, you’re about as helpful as a lawyer.”

“Bite your tongue, Sherlock Holmes! I’ve told you everything I know. If you want more, I suggest fetching it yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sherlock spun on his heels and stormed out in a flurry of tweed. “Come John. We’re going. The Government of Britain doesn’t know anything.”

 _I could have told you that._ John thought better of voicing this. Instead, he cleared his throat.

 

Mycroft rose as John straightened his jacket, ready to follow Sherlock into whatever lay waiting in the streets of London.

“Er…” He set down the cup and saucer on the mahogany desk. “…well, thank you for the lovely, um…”

“John Watson, a moment if you please?” Mycroft addressed him, checking a silver pocket watch that hung on a fine chain about his expensive waistcoat. “That is the speed at which Sherlock Holmes makes enemies. I am relying on you to ensure he keeps at least one civil temperament at his side. Namely you. Good luck, you poor sod.”

John opened his mouth. Then shut it.

Mycroft shut his office door with a warm smile. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took forever. Apologies!

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little tired of reading only Vamp!Sherlock but found only one other Vamp!John. So I decided to play around. I've read some truly amazing vampire fictions out there with these characters and they are beautiful and long and very advanced into the relationship between John and Sherlock. This was a lark. I'll continue it if I think of anything more. Thank you for reading!


End file.
